Sleep Debt
by Chronos Keeper
Summary: The brothers Strider bond over MS Paint doodles spawned by insomnia.


Every once in a while, Bro suffered from some incredibly nasty bouts of insomnia. Like Bro was the Sandman's bitch, and the Sandman was too busy off porkin' other dudes to come back and pay attention to his side piece. Generally when Bro found himself (figuratively speaking) on his back but shit just wouldn't happen, Dave would find him in the morning planted at his computer desk, surrounded by empty cans of various beverages, staring with glassy eyes at his sweet as shit hella expensive monitor. At these times, Dave would patiently (and by patiently, comment continuously on his brother's feebleness at his old age) ply his older brother with successively caffeinated drinks until the guy was more alive than dead, while he scrounged around for breakfast.

On one such occasion, Dave had gone into the mostly-dark living room, far after midnight, to procure water from the fridge after waking up at ass-oh-hundred hours with a mouth full of pillow and no saliva. He had been quiet so as not to wake Bro, who was a notoriously light sleeper, because goddamn if he wanted to fight off a billion puppet assaults from the dark. But on the return trip Dave spotted Bro's lanky form in his computer chair, curled close to the monitor. The pale light of the screen threw the sharp angles of his face into relief, creating stark lines that made him look older than he really was.

Dave knew instantly what was going on, but was kind of at a loss for what to do. Normally there wasn't much he could do for his brother, short of shooting him up with horse tranquilizers, and Dave imagined he would get tired of that real fast. However, Bro didn't turn to acknowledge Dave's presence, and all he could hear was the steady click of Bro's mouse.

Dave crossed the dusky expanse of room, shuffling his feet to prevent any unwanted contact with wires or assorted hard objects. He knocked aside a few misaimed, listless flying puppets, but they got less frequent as he got closer, and stopped altogether by the time he drew even with futon. He stayed there, and regarded his brother. "Sup, man."

"Mmmm. Not much." More mouse clicking. Dave couldn't quite see what he was doing at that angle, since the flatscreen washed out.

"Mr. Sandman treatin' you bad again? I told you, you should just hit up Mr. Candyland, or somethin'. But what the hell do I know. I'm just a kid." He'd forgotten about the glass of water in his hand, which meant he'd been deflecting toys in the dark with only one arm. If Bro were more conscious, he might have commended Dave for that. As it was, Bro reached out and instead flicked his nose with the hand that had been propping up his chin almost absently. Fucker.

Dave almost managed to catch his hand and twist his fingers before it withdrew, and he glared at him. "You are so goddamn wiped, dude." He couldn't help sound a little growly; he was just a little concerned, and that made him angry.

"Nah. 'M just not trying. Why are you up, it's almost one." Finally his brother tore his gaze away from the monitor to level it at Dave. There still seemed to be a disjointed quality to it, and Dave kind of hated it that he could read his brother's expression for once. His eyes were the only place he regularly showed emotion, and with his shades off and in this state, he was almost easy to read.

Aw crap, and he wasn't wearing his shades, either. With his own shades off, he was an open book to Bro, to beat a hackneyed horse to death. But Bro didn't comment on whatever he could see in Dave's face. The older Strider gripped the edge of the slab of wood and wheeled himself to one side. "Check it out," he murmurred, reaching up to rub at his eyes.

Dave ambled forward a little bit more, steeling himself for an onslaught of puppet ass whether by air or screen.

When he was met with neither, he was a little dumbfounded.

Paint was up, and it looked like Bro had been trying to fight the intergalactic sleep-stealing ass pirates by doodling. What had started as a scrawl, as evidenced by the color swatches lining the left edge of the page, had gradually morphed into an intricate and, for Paint anyway, beautiful picture. A pure white tree grew out of the bottom margin, articulated by pale grays, blues, and violets, its trunk twisting and climbing like a thing alive. The leaves were a wash of reds and greens, mingling but never seeming to denote either spring or fall. The roots were a ghostly, luminous tangle, and it looked like they were struggling with-

"Are those tentacles."

"Yes."

"Tentacles. Really."

"Yes, really."

It gave the picture a vaguely unsettling feel.

"That is messed up, bro." And by messed up, he meant cosmically frightening and fragilely beautiful. If he'd known his bro turned into some kind of bizarre Buddhist/Shaolin monk once he got severely sleep deprived, Dave would have considered staying up to watch the ensuing antics, because that would have been way better than hoping he didn't get smothered in the night by Cal in a come-to-Jesus moment.

"Yup." He swiveled, chair squeaking lowly, to take a gander at his work. "How would you change it?" The question didn't really have any tone behind it, so Dave couldn't grasp what he was getting at. If he were being genuine, that was kind of weird and unusual and Dave didn't really want to try and fit his head around serious critique of his brother's work. If Bro were just being... well, Bro, then he was being so totally lame. So lame.

The first thing Dave did was set down his glass (on one of the wrinkled copies of GameBro serving as varnish to the desk). This had to be done with precision. The second thing he did was bat away an anticipated light slap to the back of his head- seriously, dude? Now you're just getting crabby- as he moved forward. He reached over and hit Ctrl-S. The window popped up with the prompt for Dave to name the file. Jesus, Bro had been doing this without saving? That was kind of impressive, in a weird, anal way, but whatever. He then hit the fill tool, selected a vibrant purple as the main color, and plopped it into the interlacing tentacles.

There. The hideous monster from the deep was now sporting a dashing shade of plum.

Bro had leaned forward to watch, and actually gave a laugh as the ominous beast became a squiddle. "Sweet." He reached over Dave's arm to quick save it again. Dave gave an inner wince, because really what he'd done was deface a kind of intriguing picture, and now Bro had pretty much sealed it in stone. But he didn't say anything about that. He opted for, "So what's with the tree?"

"Yggdrasil."

"Egg-de-who-what?"

A small, automatic smirk quirked up one side of Bro's stubbled face. "Ygg-dra-sil. It's Scandinavian." He eased back in his chair, stretching out his long, skinny limbs.

Dave simultaneously hated it when Bro pulled out weird knowledge crap, and liked it because it was pretty chill to have a walking encyclopedia of weird shit on legs. "Okay. But why? And why does a tree have a name? That's gay."

Bro shrugged. The mysteries and impulses of his mind escaped him too, sometimes, it seemed, as well as those of long-dead cultures. "Well, the tree's pretty important to them, because it's got all of the worlds. And it's got a name 'cause they just liked namin' shit. Hell, your cat couldn't even shit without having to name it before you buried it."

"And why with Little Mermaid's rape squid?"

His older brother grinned, setting off his slightly crooked teeth in the cross lighting. "That motherfucker wouldn't look at no fin bitch, period. That badass homes is Niddhog." He regarded the picture. "Well, now he's a squiddle, but he's cool with it. Like... Niddles."

"Awesome."

"You know it. Like Cthulu met Martha Stewart up in this bitch."

"Cthulu?" It sounded like something Rose would be interested in.

"Forget it." He rolled his shoulders and neck, and something about his posture seemed to ease a little. "What day is it?"

"Friday?"

"Ah, cool. So I don't have to be on your case for being up so late before school."

"Fff! You were the one who told me to come over." Although he knew Bro was messing with him, he thought it was appropriate to point that out.

Bro sent him an ironic hand flap, almost an air double slap. Dave responded with a shooing, get-outta-my-space gesture as he picked up his glass again. Which now had a puppet that was happily bathing the tip of its buttocks in Dave's water.

"Augh!"

Bro's laugh was already on the futon, close to the wall. He could see his brother's feet through the rungs of the side, twitching as he got comfortable. "Go to bed, man."

Dave complied, not wanting any more unexpected surprises. But left the soggy puppet to puddle on Bro's desk, and bleed the colors of the magazines onto the unfinished wood. Vengeance is sweet, bitches.

He went back to his room, his trip shockingly absent of puppet suicide attacks, in an apartment that somehow felt as if a long breath had been outspent. 


End file.
